


Complexities

by odainath



Category: mi-5/spooks
Genre: Drama, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-03
Updated: 2009-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-21 15:51:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 17,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odainath/pseuds/odainath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for season 5 -8.  A collection of one-shots based on a word prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exsanguinate

**Complexities**

* * *

 **Author's notes:** All right, a quick low-down as to what's happening here. Basically, I get a daily word and I write a daily fic. Feel free to give me more words, via email, review, PM, whatever and I'll do what I can.

Enjoy!

Set in Ros' past with MI-6 and 6.03

The first word ( _exsanguinate_ ) from 'melanie_anne' on livejournal.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Spooks, it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

 **Summary:** A collection of one shots and drabbles.

* * *

' **Exsanguinate'**

* * *

Lies.

Pain.

Screams.

Truth.

It is so predictable, boring almost, this pattern that has developed. Ros stands behind a man, a nobody, who has information that she wants. He sits, slumped against the table, his body shaking and whimpers as she runs her fingers through his hair, only to yank back hard, ripping out a small handful. It is a simple technique, one used in the playground by ten-year-olds, but it has proved effective with those with a low pain tolerance. The man cries out but then clenches his jaw and spits onto the table, a defiance.

Ros rolls her eyes and slams his face against the table, pulling his arm back and gripping his fingers in one hand. He is hyperventilating now, but says nothing and she pushes hard and listens to the _'crack'_ that resounds around the room as the bones break. He screams and she leans over his shoulder, her breath tickling his ears.

"Tell me," she whispers, her voice almost seductive.

"No."

She sighs and walks around the table, sitting opposite. He looks down, away from her, and she kicks out suddenly, her boot colliding with his shin. He makes a dull _'omph'_ but still doesn't speak.

"We could continue like this," she says casually, drumming her nails against the hard wood. "But I really don't want to."

He looks up and glares; the flesh around his eye is swelling fast, courtesy of a punch earlier.

"I'm not telling you anything," he hisses.

Ros purses her lips and gets to her feet, crossing the room.

She'll let him wait a while.

Ros hasn't always been like this, able to torture a man without blinking an eyelid. Her first interrogation was a disaster. The subject, a woman, had spun a story, one that told of hardships that Ros – only twenty at the time – had believed.

She had been naive then.

That naiveté was lost when the woman's husband, the leader of a local militia unit organised a bombing, one only foiled when her superior entered the interrogation room and broken the woman's arm, forcing her to tell them anything.

Ros never made the same mistake.

Now she continues until she has extracted all the information she can, becoming immune to the screams, her conscience taking a back seat.

"Has he spilled yet?"

A colleague stands beside her and looks through the glass, his eyebrows rising. He, 'they', everyone knows that she no longer has any compunction when it comes to torture, indeed she has earned the title of 'ice-queen', whose blood now runs cold.

"I presume that he's not far off," he continues, giving her a side-long glance.

Ros turns and her lips curve upward.

"You presume correctly."

Skip forward fifteen years and the roles are reversed. Ros sits, strapped to a chair, her head forced backward. She can only look up and she watches as the drops fall, rhythmic, steady...

Damn irritating.

She listens for signs that someone else is in the room; that she hasn't been left here and is rewarded when a figure looms from the shadows.

Magritte.

The woman walks slowly, heels clicking against the cement and comes to a halt. Her posture is arrogant and Ros wants to roll her eyes. Magritte has made a mistake here, Ros is no ordinary officer. She excels at 'interrogation', it is a widely-acknowledged fact throughout the security service.

Magritte takes another step and raises her eyebrows.

Ros knows she is going to be asked questions but also knows she won't reveal anything.

She is better than Magritte at the 'torture game.'

Of that she is certain.

Ros wants to laugh as Magritte hooks her up to a polygraph machine.

She has never failed a polygraph; why would she, she is never sure what is lies and what is truth. No one did, not in this game.

Magritte stands back.

" _Is there a light on?"_

" _Yes."_

And so it goes.

The gun is cold against her temple but Ros doesn't flinch. Men have entered, yelling at her or at Magritte, and she clenches her fists as one whispers into her ear.

" _Prepare yourself."_

Ros leans away but the man raises his gun, shooting Magritte in the chest. She can see blood spill from the French woman, soaking the material of her shirt. Beside her, the man looks over at her polygraph and she hears a sharp intake of breath as he sees that her pulse has not risen, not even slightly.

She glances to the side as a blade comes down, glinting silver in the dim light, slicing through the leather restraints. She is pulled roughly to her feet and hard fingers prod her spine, forcing her up the stairs. The door is opened and she is forced to squints as the sunlight assaults her eyes. A man, elderly, is walking towards her and Ros recognises him from her past. A past including her father, which she'd rather forget.

" _I take it we're not in Denmark?"_

Sarcasm; a weapon she loves and uses often.

Behind her, she hears footsteps, ones she recognises, and a coat is draped around her shoulders. Magritte enters her line of vision and Ros realises that this whole thing, this 'torture', was a game.

Nevertheless, she won.

" _It's just cold water running through your veins, isn't it?"_

Ros says nothing as she realises his words are true.

Warm blood?

No.

Cold water?

Yes.

Ros straightens her shoulders and fixes him with a glare. It is something she has never thought about before.

Right now she can't bring herself to care.

* * *

 **Author's notes:** A round-a-bout way of using the word but it was a damn hard prompt!  
Hope you liked and please review.  
 _Odainath_


	2. Exsanguinate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's notes:** All right, a quick low-down as to what's happening here. Basically, I get a daily word and I write a daily fic. Feel free to give me more words, via email, review, PM, whatever and I'll do what I can. This particular one crosses with Code-9 though please remember I've never actually seen it.

**Author's notes:** All right, a quick low-down as to what's happening here. Basically, I get a daily word and I write a daily fic. Feel free to give me more words, via email, review, PM, whatever and I'll do what I can. This particular one crosses with Code-9 though please remember I've never actually seen it.

The second word is _abandoned_ from 'londonspook' on livejournal.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Spooks, it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

 **Summary:** A collection of one shots and drabbles.

* * *

 **Abandoned**

* * *

 _Click._

The sound of a safety catch being released should scare her, Jo knows that, but she's been waiting for death long enough that she's ceased to care. Besides, a bullet to the brain is more elegant than a slow death from radiation poisoning.

That's what she tells herself anyway.

"Turn around," a voice commands and Jo thinks for a moment that it sounds familiar, a voice from a past she chooses to forget.

Instinctively she obeys and she moves slowly, holding her hands in the air. She can barely see six foot ahead of her and the figure is indistinct, somehow becoming _part_ of the fog that surrounds them both. Slowly, her eyes adjust and her mouth falls ajar.

"Ros?" she manages.

The woman's eyes widen, though retain a hardness that Jo misses more than she cares to admit. She holds a gun in her hands, her grip strong, the barrel pointing directly between Jo's eyes. She looks tired, the smudges beneath her eyes are like bruises, and her skin has become so pale to be almost translucent. Nevertheless, the tangible air of danger that always surrounded her remains.

Finally, she responds.

"Where's Harry?"

Jo takes Ros back to the abandoned apartment block that has become her home. Neither woman speaks, though take comfort in the other's presence. The London streets are empty of people, though rubbish litters the road, papers flying through the wind, disappearing into the mist. Jo looks at Ros as they walk; she appears as strong as ever but Jo's eyes are sharp and she notices how she favours one leg above the other.

"What happened?" she asks as she pushes open the door.

Ros looks at her, eyes expressionless, for a full minute before answering.

"I underestimated an opponent."

Her voice is not raised but Jo knows not to push the subject.

Harry's expression would be comical in another situation and he rises to his feet and stares at Ros as if she is an apparition. Jo smiles to herself, a 'spook.' Neither speak, communicating without words, until Ros takes off the bag slung over her back and throws it onto the ground, next to their make-shift mattresses.

"Is there room for one more?" she asks, one corner of her mouth tilted upward in a trademark smile.

Harry shrugs his shoulders even as he pushes his meagre belongings to the side to make room.

"If it suits you."

It turns out that Ros comes bearing gifts. Admittedly they are not conventional, but they are practical; three guns, anti-radiation medication, medical supplies and – most importantly – travel passes that will allow them to leave London. Jo wonders as they sit on the floor, eating food that she scavenged the previous day, how Ros came across these.

On second thoughts, perhaps she doesn't want to.

Ros' voice is welcome; Harry does not speak often, and conversation has become a novelty. Now, as she watches the two talk softly, she can't help but smile. The two had been close, had a mentor-protégé relationship, and she wonders if it was that closeness which had prompted Ros to enter a literal apocalypse.

Perhaps she'll ever know.

They stay in the warehouse for a week before Ros suggests that they move. And by 'move' Jo know she means out of London. Part of her is terrified but she nods as she slings a bag over her shoulder. She tucks Ros' gun into the back of her jeans, concealed with a jacket she had taken from a dead man, and follows the blonde into the street. The night sky is uncharacteristically clear and the devastation is stark to the eye. The only light is from the moon, the street lamps having stopped working months ago, and they move slowly careful to avoid the gangs that have sprung up in the city.

Ros leads, having done this before and Jo is forced to jog to keep up with her pace. Alongside, Harry is breathing far harder than usual.

Perhaps Ros hears this for she looks over her shoulder and stops, allowing him to gain breath.

Jo is tireder than she wants to admit and her eyes close even before her body hits the sofa cushions Ros scrounged earlier. At some point she has become their source of everything; food, clothes, bedding, even comfort.

Jo would never have believed this six months ago.

Ros doesn't seem to tire and when Jo wakes the other woman is speaking once more with Harry. Jo freezes, not wanting them to know she is listening.

" _Why did you come back, Ros?"_

" _MI-5 has gone to the dogs, Harry. We need someone who can fight them."_

" _Is that the only reason?"_

Jo shifts and the two look over at her, stilling their conversation.

Ros raises her eyebrows.

"We need to get moving."

They reach Manchester one evening.

Jo breathes a sigh; one of exhaustion, relief and thanks as Ros unlocks the door to her flat and steps aside to let them pass. The flat is large, open, and Ros ushers Jo into one of the bedrooms which has an ensuite bathroom. On the bed is a change of clothes and Jo realises that Ros had been planning this 'rescue mission' for some time.

"Why?" Jo asks suddenly. "Why come back for us?"

Ros pauses, deliberating her answer.

"I don't like leaving people behind."

Jo nods, it is a 'Ros' answer; typically ambiguous and indecipherable.

Ros turns and walks toward the door, though Jo calls out before she goes into the hallway.

"Thank you."

Two simple words filled with so much subtext Jo doesn't know where to start.

Right now, she doesn't care to.

* * *

 **Author's notes:** This was harder than I thought!  
Please review,  
 _Odainath_


	3. Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's notes:** This prompt is from omnomnon17 with the word 'control.' Remember, give me a word, I'll write a fic. The only proviso is that it contains Ros.

**Author's notes:** This prompt is from omnomnon17 with the word 'control.' Remember, give me a word, I'll write a fic. The only proviso is that it contains Ros.

Enjoy and please review.

This one is a prequel to the previous chapter, 'abandoned.'

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Spooks; it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

* * *

 **Control**

* * *

The safe-house she has been given is dark and Ros flicks on the light as she walks into the hallway, illuminating the surprisingly large space. It has been another long day, one with no results, and she curses the politicians, the generals, the scientists and others she has to deal with now that Harry is gone.

She pauses in the centre of the living room. It wasn't that she _knew_ Harry was gone, but she had been specifically ordered not to return to London, to the devastation. Part of her is grateful for the order; she knows going back will mean facing death in the thousands, admitting that London – once the centre of the Western world – is gone. Her home, her friends, everything turned to dust because of a group of mad people hated the West.

At times she thinks it would be poetic to drop one of their own bombs in the enemies' capital cities. To see how they like it.

Then she watches a news broadcast and wants to hit herself for thinking such things.

Ros crosses to the kitchen and puts down her keys, phone, gun and other identification. She has never been one to carry a handbag and now doesn't seem the time to change the habit of a life-time. She leans against the bench, fingers splayed and looks at the floor. What she hates most is the uncertainty and the people using the event for their own personal gain. There is a banker, naturally corrupt, who took huge shares betting the collapse of the British economy. She knows he had forward knowledge of the attack, but also knows they will never be able to prove it.

Nevertheless, she plans to 'pay him a visit' in the near future.

Ros closes her eyes and – not for the first time – wonders what Harry would do. She is confident in her abilities but since returning to the Grid her conscience speaks with Harry's voice, his praise, his inflections, pointing her in what she hopes is the right direction. However, her conscience is not the man himself and Ros knows that she occasionally needs to be reigned in to stop her making mistakes. And – ironically – it is only Harry who is able to do this.

Next door she can hear a woman crying and remembers that her family was staying in London the night of the attack, in the city centre which has been entirely annihilated. It is this more than anything that sends Ros into her bedroom. She rifles through the wardrobe, withdrawing what she thinks will be necessary.

Guns, passes, food, water and anti-radiations meds.

Not conventional travel items but perfect for a woman about to enter an apocalypse.

All things going well, she'll return with someone who she can fight alongside. Some might call her weak for admitting she needs someone.

Ros doesn't care.

* * *

 **Author's notes:** It seems that the simple words are the hardest!  
Please review,  
 _Odainath_


	4. Schadenfreude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's notes:** So, word number four, and one that I admit I looked at and went 'what the hell?'

**Author's notes:** So, word number four, and one that I admit I looked at and went 'what the hell?'

From Kirsteena on livejournal: 'Schadenfreude' (delight in another's misfortune.)

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Spooks; it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

* * *

It's the screaming that keeps her grounded.

Not the screams of those she interrogates; if were honest with herself she rather enjoys them. It was twisted, sadistic even, but a thrill always ran through her veins at that first choked breath, the first truth that spilled from liars' mouths. It was affirmation that _she_ was in control, _she_ held the power in her hands and, ultimately, _she_ who decided their fate. .

No, the screams of victims kept her feet planted firmly on the earth; the screams of the innocent; the ones who didn't ask to be ensnared in her world of secrets and half-truths. 'Ordinary people' who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The man in front of her is not innocent.

His wife is but she knows something and won't tell.

Ros walks slowly around the table and drags her fingernails against the metal table, the high-pitched sound echoing around the small room. She has placed them together, something she doesn't usually do, but as someone once said 'rules are made to be broken.' She has been silent for five minutes, simply circling slowly. In a lunge of movement she reaches out and wraps her fingers around the man's neck, squeezing hard. He gasps but she pays no attention to him, instead looking at his wife who stares back, pleading for her to let him go.

Ros squeezes harder.

"Stop, please..."

"Not until I have what I need."

The woman leans back and juts her chin forward, shaking her head.

"No."

Ros tilts her head an inch to the side. The woman won't tell. The woman is no longer innocent...

It makes her life a little bit easier.

"Very well."

She lets the man go only to twist him in his chair, breaking his nose with the heel of her palm. The sickening _'crack'_ resounds through the room and he howls, trying to reach upward to stem the bleeding, but unable to with his hands fastened tightly behind his back. The woman glares but straightens in her chair, still refusing to tell.

Ros sighs as she takes a step backward.

"You have two children, don't you?" she says casually.

The woman's eyes widen. "Not them, please..."

"Then tell me," Ros interrupts.

"No..."

Ros shrugs her shoulders and walks towards the door, counting her steps before she is told everything.

"All right..."

Later, Ros is washing the blood off her hands when a colleague steps into the bathroom, holding a photo. It shows a group of women and children, leaning into each other, tears streaming down their faces. This is what the information she has just gathered led to, these are the people she can help save.

She dries her hands before she reaches out and takes the photo. She peers closely, one finger hovering above a child's face. He is young, no more than eight, far too innocent to be caught up in _this_.

She imagines his screams and any guilt she felt about interrogating the woman disappears.

"I presume we're on our way," she says, tucking the photo into her pocket.

"Yes."

Ros nods.

The boy's screams resound in her ears.

It's the screaming that keeps her grounded.

"Then I suggest we get moving."

* * *

 **Author's notes:** A particularly hard prompt.  
Hope you enjoyed, please review,  
 _Odainath_


	5. Cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's notes:** Okay, you know the drill. Give me a word, I'll write a story. The proviso? It has to include Ros is some way. :D

**Author's notes:** Okay, you know the drill. Give me a word, I'll write a story. The proviso? It has to include Ros is some way. :D

Prompt: 'Cake' from flip18 on livejournal – and yes, I know it's a tenuous link.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Spooks; it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

* * *

The wind is cold, bitterly so, and passes easily through Ros' thin shirt. She doesn't shiver, instead leaning against the rail and looking out. The view isn't spectacular, a myriad of rooftops, and she stares down at the concrete. She has been out here for over an hour and part of her is surprised no one has followed. Harry has been keeping an annoyingly close eye on her after Jo's death, insisting she check in regularly, and keeping tabs on her movements. She knows he means well, but a large part of her resents his interference.

"You've been out here long enough, Ros."

Speak of the devil.

She doesn't turn and listens to his footsteps as he approaches, coming to stand alongside. She can hear the rustling of fabric and tenses for a moment as he drapes his coat over his shoulders.

"Come to check on me, Harry?" she says drily, turning towards him.

"Yes."

It's a simple answer and Ros has always hated simple.

"I'm fine."

He says nothing, raising an eyebrow, and Ros imagines how she must look at this point in time; drowning in Harry's overcoat, her skin tinged blue from cold, hair tussled by the wind. Certainly not the appearance of one who is 'fine.'

"Come out of the cold."

Ros sighs, knowing he won't let her refuse. She pushes herself off the rail and together they walk toward the stairs. Her heels snap against the cement, ringing loudly, a symphony she finds surprisingly comforting. Harry is close behind and the pods open to let them both inside. Lucas glances up and Ros watches as his eyes widen and knows they must look like an odd pair.

As ever, she doesn't care.

She walks to her desk, taking off Harry's coat, and sits down.

He pauses for a moment then leans in close to speak in her ear.

"I know it was Jo's birthday..."

Ros flinches backward, eyes narrowing. Harry looks startled at her reaction but, to his credit, holds his ground. Ros sighs and unbends a little.

"She would have been twenty-nine," she says softly.

"It's not your fault, Ros."

Harry's voice has taken on _that_ tone again; frustrated, annoyed but, most of all, with an undercurrent of assertion that she loathes.

"I'm the one who put a bullet in her, Harry," she reminds him, for once not sarcastic.

"You had to."

Ros stared. "Did I, did I really?"

"You know you did, Ros."

Ruth's clothes annoy Ros.

She isn't sure why this thought pops into her mind, then Ruth stops at her desk and looks down, eyes full of sympathy.

"We should celebrate her life, Ros," she says, "not dwell on her death."

Ros can feel her features harden and Ruth juts her chin forward. Admirable really, Ros admits, most people would run at the look she is currently receiving.

"What would you prefer, Ruth?" she spits. "For me to light a candle, sing happy birthday, bake a bloody cake?"

Ruth swallows and stares briefly at her feet. "That's not what I mean..."

Ros doesn't want to hear anymore and slides her chair backward, getting up and stalking across the Grid. She goes to the stairs and stops, unsure where to go. After a moment, she heads back toward the roof.

This time no one follows and she stands alone.

* * *

 **Author's notes:** I found this one the hardest. Hopefully it's okay.  
Please review,  
 _Odainath_


	6. Dobro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's notes:** Okay, you know the drill; give me a word and I'll write a story.

**Author's notes:** Okay, you know the drill; give me a word and I'll write a story.

The word is 'dobro' from afiakate on livejournal.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Spooks; it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

* * *

Ruth likes the Grid at this hour of the morning. It's quiet, save for the music emanating from the small stereo on her desk. She only plays it when everyone else is away and finds it soothing. Though there are no windows, she knows that outside the colours are still pastel and the world still quiet, still half-asleep. She pulls the keyboard towards her and begins typing, looking up in surprise when the pod doors open. She is used to being alone for at least an hour. From her desk she can't see the person but recognise Ros' heels as they snap against the floor, making their own beat. The other woman says nothing as she comes around the corner, merely raising an eyebrow. In a blur of movement she has covered the ground between herself and Ruth's desk and turns the stereo off with a jab of her index finger.

The Grid is now deathly silent, save for their breathing, and the two women stare, neither willing to look away. Predictably, it is Ruth who breaks and she turns her head, away from Ros' penetrating gaze. The blonde doesn't move and Ruth can feel her eyes boring into her skin, as if she can see into Ruth's mind. It is a skill, one Ruth isn't comfortable with, but which she knows has proved useful in the past. Ros' eyes, so unreadable, were disconcerting and people spilled secrets simply to make her leave.

"I was listening to that," Ruth says finally.

"I know."

It is a typical 'Ros' answer that Ruth finds herself resenting. Still, she doesn't let this show and Ros turns and goes over to her own desk. Ruth watches the other woman; under the fluorescent light she looks emaciated and Ruth sees how much weight she has lost since Jo's death. Blonde hair, usually bright, has lost its lustre and her whole person screams 'tired' as do the dark smudges beneath her eyes.

"Something the matter, Ruth?" Ros asks, not looking up.

Ruth shakes her head, knowing that the other woman doesn't care if there is something 'wrong.'

"Are you...?" Ruth ventures.

At this Ros' eyes move to hers and strike her with their full intensity.

"Are me, what?" Ros says, her tone deceptively sweet.

Ruth inhales deeply and takes a plunge. "Are you all right?" she asks, all in one breath.

Ros laughs and it sends chills up Ruth's spine.

"Do not try and psychoanalyse me, Ruth," she answers after a pause. "Other people have tried and all of them have failed. Do not flatter yourself that you will be any different."

She turns back and Ruth finds herself without words.

Which, she thinks, is exactly what Ros was after.

What Ruth doesn't know is that Ros has always loathed music. The only person she allowed to hum or play the radio was Jo, and Jo isn't here now.

As a consequence, music shouldn't be either.

It was illogical to have one without the other.

And the 'other' would not be returning.

That night, Ruth thinks she is alone and reaches for the stereo dial.

From the other side of the Grid, Ros' voice rings out; clear, sharp and commanding.

"Bring that out again, Ruth, and I will throw it from the rooftop."

Ruth knows the other woman will be true to her word and she silently places the stereo on the ground, making a mental note to take it with her when she leaves.

Ruth forgets and when Ros comes out of the conference her eyes fall on the silver object. It glints in the dim light and before she knows it she has crossed the Grid in six long strides and holds it in her hands.

She remembers Jo, eyes closed as she swayed slightly to music, and without thinking she hurls the stereo across the Grid where it shatters against the ground. She turns and walks out of the Grid, leaving the mess behind. Someone will have to clean it up, Harry will watch the CCTV feed to see what happened and she will be called into his office tomorrow and asked if she is 'all right.'

Ros doesn't care.

* * *

 **Author's notes:** _This_ was the hardest prompt in history.  
Please review,  
 _Odainath_


	7. Inferiority

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's notes:** Right, this one is courtesy of 'Lethologica' and is slightly more specific than the others. There were two guidelines; the word 'inferiority' with a possible Harry/Ros romance.

**Author's notes:** Right, this one is courtesy of 'Lethologica' and is slightly more specific than the others. There were two guidelines; the word 'inferiority' with a possible Harry/Ros romance.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Spooks; it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

* * *

Adam is dead.

Kachimov is dead.

And yet Ros feels nothing; no satisfaction of revenge; no lingering emotions about Adam and her... she supposes she could have called it love but right now she feels nothing. She has truly become an 'Ice Queen.' In the past she may have relished this realisation but right now she mourns for lost emotions.

As ever, she pushes this thought to the back of mind; to reside with her father, with Adam, and now with Kachimov. All men she has felt strongly about, albeit in different ways.

In the bedroom, she lies staring at the ceiling.

Sleep doesn't come.

Perhaps Harry doesn't feel anything either for he knocks on her door at three o'clock that morning. She crosses the hotel room and finds him leaning against the doorframe. He looks as she feels; tired and despondent.

Unsure what else to do, she offers him a drink.

No bars are open at this hour and she raids the bar fridge, finding a small bottle of scotch. She hands it to Harry who fills a glass and drinks most of it in one swallow. Ros wonders if it burns his throat, then wonders if he cares.

She isn't quite sure how it happens but the next moment Harry has pulled her to her feet. She knows she can resist, knows she could fell him to the ground in a few simple movements, but she doesn't. Harry reaches out and cups her cheek in his hand; she can feel calluses against her skin, rough and somehow reassuring. His thumb is moving, tracing the line of her jaw, and she allows herself to be drawn closer.

She should stop this, the rational part of her knows this, but she finds herself undoing his tie, the red silk falling to the ground. It is this more than anything that propels her forward and when their lips meet a certain desperation threatens to overwhelm them both. Clothes are shed even as she is pushed toward the bed and when they fall onto the mattress, a literal tangle of limps, she doesn't reprimand herself.

They will regret this later, but as his lips move to her neck she simply doesn't care.

The sun has barely grazed the horizon when she wakes and finds herself held tightly. His arms are strong, still muscular, and she knows she stands no chance of freeing herself, not until he wakes.

She lets herself relax; this sense of security is one she hadn't thought possible.

He soon stirs but rather than letting her go as she expects, her pulls her closer. She can feel faint stubble as he rests his chin on her shoulder and it tickles.

She doesn't let this show; not willing to leave his arms just yet.

It can't last and when they get to the Grid, making sure to arrive at different times, they lapse into their usual relationship.

Where it's safe.

" _That's what they wanted, Ros, and that's what we stopped."_

Harry's words ease some of the guilt, though not all, and it perhaps for this reason that Ros finds herself on his doorstep. It is raining and she hunches her shoulders, trying to stop the water from seeping into her shirt. She hesitates, her hand hovering above the knocker, and takes a step back when the door opens.

Harry stands in the hallway and she goes inside without a word.

That night mirrors their first, as does the morning after, except this time she stays for breakfast. It is more domestic, more _real,_ and Ros knows they are wading into dangerous waters.

She pushes this knowledge away, with all of the other truths she hides from herself.

She can feel Meynell; on her body, _in_ her body, and no amount of showering can wash him away. Ros' skin is red-raw from scrubbing and she winces as she unfolds herself from the sofa to answer the knock at the door. She already knows who it is and when Harry steps into her apartment and holds her tightly, she is unsurprised.

He doesn't want anything and Ros lets herself relax.

Meynell ebbs away.

Ros is lying in bed when he calls and she absently answers the phone.

" _Myers."_

" _Ros, could you-?"_

She drives to his house and goes inside, the door already unlocked. Harry is in the living room, on the sofa, and she sits at the other end and tucks her feet in beneath herself.

" _There was an operation... a big one... we named it 'Sugarhorse.'"_

Ros watches him as he talks and fancies that she can see sadness in his eyes which, unlike hers, show emotion.

She stays at his house that night.

" _I betrayed you and the entire team. I'm very sorry, Ros."_

She doesn't want to believe him; she _can't_ believe him. If she does then it means that he isn't who she imagined; he's more like _her_ which just isn't right.

Harry isn't a traitor; he can't be.

Part of her asks _'why can't he?'_

Connie is the traitor and all is well again. Ros can't believe that she doubted him and sits in his office, waiting for him to come back from his meeting with the Home Secretary. She doesn't know how long she sits in the chair, not moving, not caring that sharp metal digs into her back, but she stands when he enters.

"I..." she begins, at a loss of what to say.

"You recognised 'renaissance,'" he interrupts.

"Yes," she says, puzzled, "what does-?"

"I knew you would."

He sounds so sure, so certain, that she can't help but look down. She is ashamed that she doubted him; that she thought for a moment he could be like her.

"Come home with me?"

His words should be a statement but it sounds like a question and she looks up. He appears nervous, uncertain, and she gives a small smile.

That smile is her answer.

Harry's missing.

Ros' world is in a panic which turns into something else when Malcolm enters the room.

" _I've just received a coded alert from Ruth."_

" _Ruth?"_

Ruth; the woman Harry loved so desperately. The woman far better suited to him than her.

Ros' throat constricts as she realises that she could very easily lose him.

Then she remembers she has to find him first.

When she does he is sitting opposite Ruth and they are sharing _those_ looks. Ruth's eyes are red from crying, full of anger even, but the undercurrent of unspoken emotion remains.

Ros closes her eyes briefly before she crosses the room and cuts the ropes that bind him with one swipe of her knife.

When he spares her only a brief glance she knows she has lost.

Ros doesn't feel jealousy.

That's what she tells herself anyway but when she sits alone after Bebe's death, nursing a glass of wine, she wishes that Ruth would go away again.

For good.

By that she doesn't mean death, even she isn't that cruel, rather like before. Ruth could lead a life that was 'simple and elegant' once more.

And Ros and Harry could... could do whatever it was they'd been doing. Ros hasn't been able to name their relationship though she has tried several times.

Now it appears she never will.

Jo's dead.

Ros killed her.

She hears the gunshots in her mind, sees Jo's eyes fade, her body fall.

And she hates herself.

She leans forward, holding her head in her hands, and lets herself sob. There is not much else she can do though she knows no amount of crying will bring Jo back.

At the moment, however, it helps.

She takes a heaving breath and nearly doesn't hear the knock at the door. Her eyes dart to the clock by her bed.

 _Three a.m._

In the past she would have known who it was, now she is genuinely unsure. She wouldn't put it past Lucas to come by, even (god forbid) Ruth might chance a visit or it could be from Harry, who she wants to see.

She gets to her feet and pads through her flat. The wood is cold against her bare feet, and she shivers as she opens the door. Harry stands on the doorstep and without thinking she has fallen against him and is crying.

He holds her tightly.

That night, as she is held close to his chest, she can believe Ruth hasn't returned, that she hasn't killed Jo; that nothing has changed.

Then the sun rises and reality hits.

* * *

 **Author's notes:** I wasn't sure when to end this but here seems a good enough place.  
Please review!  
 _Odainath._


	8. Observations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's notes:** I can't believe I have actually stuck to this for a week. Surprising. Moving on, the usual story; give me a prompt and I'll write a story.

**Author's notes:** I can't believe I have actually stuck to this for a week. Surprising. Moving on, the usual story; give me a prompt and I'll write a story.

This one is from 'Name isn't Aria' with the word 'observation' (post 7.5 Ros/Lucas.) Now, as I loved writing my previous chapter and am planning to go around the world spreading the brilliance that is Harry/Ros, then this might not be what is expected.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Spooks; it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

* * *

They are doing it again.

Ros and Harry lean over a large sheet of paper detailing the schematics of a building they plan to infiltrate. It is going to be a simple operation; a snatch and grab, where the aim is to detain and question. Ros lowers her face still further, keen eyes roaming over the blue prints, and a lock of blonde hair falls down. She brushes it away irritably and her elbow accidently prods Harry in the chest. Rather than move away and not comment as he would anyone else, Harry cracks a smile.

It is this smile that means everything.

Ros returns his smile, just for a moment, before leaning down again.

Feeling like an intruder, Lucas turns away.

" _Well, that's no choice at all."_

Ros is prepared to let him die. If it one thing Lucas has learned in the short time he has been back in Section D, it is that Ros has an unwavering loyalty to her country. He has asked questions, subtly of course, and Jo has spoken of her father, a group called 'Yalta' and – as he saw a week ago – the Al-Qaeda bombings. All events which showed how willing Ros was to do whatever it took to protect the United Kingdom.

Jo also whispers of a slight difference since Ros has returned; an unwavering loyalty to Harry.

She says she isn't sure what initiated this; only that it has increased since returning to Russia.

Lucas, however, has a fair idea of the reason.

" _Get to Ros: fast."_

Lucas has always thought Ros attractive, he imagines that most men do, but he admits that there was _something_ different about her as she walked towards him. Pale suit, sleek hair, make-up immaculate; she looked the quintessential business woman. An alluring one at that.

" _Thank you, darling."_

He is surprised when she raises herself onto the tips of her toes, but hides it well and touches his lips to hers. The kiss is brief but Lucas finds himself wondering what it would feel like to linger that little bit longer...

He brings himself back to the present.

" _The last person we said that to ended up face-down in the Thames."  
_ " _Well, that last person wasn't you."_

It's a compliment, a big one, and Lucas hopes she takes it as such. When she rolls her eyes ever so slightly he knows that she has.

" _Is she insane?"  
_ " _No, it's a brilliant double-bluff."_

Lucas wouldn't believe it possible, would argue against such a dangerous play if it were anyone else, but this feels different.

Part of him tries not to think _why_ he believes it possible.

The fact she is in Meynell's hotel room speaks for itself.

" _You two should work out more."_

Heels snap against the floor as Ros stalks away, Lucas following. She goes to the underground car park, fetching the keys from the valet, and doesn't wait for Lucas to get inside, simply driving away and leaving him behind.

He isn't offended; she needs time away from the Grid and that car can take her where she chooses.

Lucas takes a metaphorical step backward, not wanting to crowd her, and watches with interest as Ros becomes herself again after Meynell. She is more wary, more adverse to physical contact, and allows only Harry within a three-foot radius. Again, not many would notice this and Ros hides it well, but Lucas is trained in such things.

Two weeks later and she is back to normal; giving orders with ease, demanding obedience without saying a word.

As she goes into Harry's office and closes the door, Lucas knows who has helped her.

Dean Mitchell is dead and Lucas covers his mouth with his hand. Dean's mother screams, a futile lamentation, and he is rendered still. It is Ros who crouches down, pulling the mother to her feet and she fends off the blows that the woman tries to land. Lucas still can't move, and Ros grabs the woman's wrists tightly and shakes her, just once. The next moment, Dean's mother has collapsed into Ros' arms and the blonde holds her close, letting her sob onto her shoulder.

They stay like that until the ambulance arrives.

Lucas follows the two of them, through the station, and the mother clutches Ros' hand. The shoulder of Ros' suede jacket is wet from tears, and Lucas' breath hitches.

Ros glances over her shoulder.

Then turns back.

" _Tiresias wakes; three p.m, today."_

Ros bites her thumb, a curiously childish gesture, and follows Harry into his office. He pulls the door close and the two sit down opposite each other. Harry looks unbelievably tired, Ros nearly as much, and both of them look like they would like to simply sleep.

National Security, as ever, quashes that idea.

"We need to retrieve Connie."

The plan is simple: pose as Russians, snatch Connie, go back to a safe-house and wait for Harry. Lucas waits at the car, leaning against the door, and has to smile as Ros enters. She looks entirely unimpressed in an all-black outfit and gets into the car next to his, driving off in a screech of tires. Jo, who was already in their car, gives a nervous laugh as Ros turns the corner and bursts onto the street.

"She looks... happy."

Lucas can't help but shake his head.

" _Alternatively, I could always break your fingers one-by-one."_

Lucas hasn't seen this side of Ros before; capable of anything. A shiver runs down his spine as her glare deepens and she clenches her left hand, perhaps to stop herself from reaching out and striking Connie in the face.

Lucas draws himself from his observations and turns to the job at hand.

To prevent the awakening of Tiresias.

" _It missed all the important bits. I'll live."  
_ " _Don't speak too soon."_

At the water cooler he had once heard Ros described as 'flesh over a machine' and now, as they run through the winding tunnel, he can understand why. She is barely sweating despite the heat and exertion, and her sarcasm has not diminished.

It is reassuring; that despite everything she remains the same.

Cold and unflappable.

" _Has anyone been in contact with him?"_

Ros' face pales and without consulting him she walks away, out of the underground, and hails the first taxi that stops. The driver looks in the rear-vision mirror, his eyes widening at their state of filth, but Ros glares and he – wisely – chooses not to comment. Ros turns her head to the side and stares out into the streets.

Lucas is reminded that the layman won't know a nuclear catastrophe has been averted, that a traitor has redeemed herself, that he and Ros have risked their lives.

Though, as Ros said, _"it's better this way."_

" _You're deluding yourselves."_

Ros refuses to believe Harry is dead, and while part of Lucas agrees with Malcolm, at the moment he doesn't dare voice this opinion. He knows that Ros will have to see a body before she could ever accept that Harry was dead.

Lucas wonders what would happen to Ros if Harry hasn't survived.

Pain, turmoil, a descent into psychosis...

She is far too complicated for him to answer that right now.

Harry is found.

And yet Ros is not happy.

Lucas can't understand this, then Harry has returned to work and he sees that the hidden emotion only he had been able to read as disappeared.

" _If this situation with Ruth isn't resolved..."_

And there it was. Ruth, who Lucas had heard about via Jo, is back and it seems Ros is being shunted to the side.

Lucas bites his lip and thinks Harry a fool.

He finds her still at the Grid, despite it being ten o'clock at night, staring at the computer screen. Unsure what to do, he pulls up a chair and simply waits. Eventually, she turns towards him and raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, Lucas?"

Her voice is crisp but Lucas can hear the slight tremor.

"You need to get home," he says, holding out a hand and pulling her to his feet.

"Is that so?" she retorts.

"Yes."

"And if I don't want to?"

Ros' body is hard as Lucas discovers when he pushes her against the wall. He isn't sure how it happened, isn't sure he wants to, but when she bites down on his shoulder, nearly drawing blood he doesn't care. The sofa isn't comfortable, Lucas knows this, but Ros doesn't seem to notice as he lies her down. He is gentle where she has been rough and runs his hand along her stomach.

She reaches down and grabs his wrist, nails digging into his flesh.

"Not like that," she whispers.

Lucas' brow furrows.

Nevertheless he obliges.

Sarah Cawfield is smart, attractive and the sort of woman his mother of who his mother would approve. Ros, with her unflinching stance and icy demeanour is who his mother warned him about.

As he kisses Sarah on London Bridge, he tries to remember this.

He doesn't quite succeed.

* * *

 **Author's notes:** Particularly difficult.  
Please review,  
 _Odainath._


	9. Apprehension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's notes:** I know this is two days late but I've worked 28 out of 48 hours and was dog tired and barely coherent, which doesn't lend itself to writing fic..

**Author's notes:** I know this is two days late but I've worked 28 out of 48 hours and was dog tired and barely coherent, which doesn't lend itself to writing fic..

The prompt is from Fluffyspook; word 'apprehension' (Harry/Ruth.)

As we've seen I am turning myself into a Harry/Ros shipper so this isn't your straight Harry/Ruth story.

Also, to 'Lilly', I have no idea how long I'll do this. I've got 37 prompts so far so I'm good for a month. More are welcome however. :D

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Spooks; it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

* * *

She didn't notice it at first.

Though in hindsight, maybe she chose not to.

Harry and Ros are talking quietly as they cross the Grid, heading towards Harry's office, and Ruth watches as Harry gently touches the small of her back. Ruth would think nothing of it, but Ros' reaction sparks her curiosity. The blonde, usually so composed, flinches away from his hand. Harry looks surprised and Ruth stops typing, her eyes fixed on the unexpected scene in front of her. Ros' eyes, so hard and indecipherable, show a deep hurt, one which Ruth would never have associated with her until that very moment.

Harry's expression wavers to one of understanding and he withdraws his hand, moving away quickly, leaving Ros to follow. She does, after a moment's pause, and strides past Ruth as if nothing had happened.

All of this happens in less than two seconds.

Ruth's brow furrows as Ros goes into Harry's office and sits down, crossing her legs. They both act as if nothing has happened and Ruth's brain goes into overdrive trying to think of possible reasons.

None come to her.

Ruth is at the water cooler when her attention is diverted. Ros is at her desk and Harry approaches, pulling out a chair and sitting opposite. He leans forward, palms flat against his thighs, and the two speak intently in less than a whisper. Their conversation becomes more animated, Ros using her hands to great effect to emphasise a point, and Harry sits back.

They look at each other, their expressions bordering on a glare, before Ros rises to her feet and stalks toward the pods.

Harry shakes his head as he watches her go.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Ruth is broken from her observations by Lucas who offers her a smile which she returns.

"Just looking," she says, waving in the general direction of Harry who was sitting at Ros' desk.

"Ah, yes," Lucas says, eyes twinkling. "The 'Dream Team.'"

Ruth raises her eyebrows, confused.

"Harry and Ros," Lucas elaborates. "I think Jo came up with the nickname."

She forces a laugh.

"I see."

"Ah, Ruth."

Harry sounds genuinely pleased to see her and Ruth smiles as she enters his office, files in her arms.

"I found these..."

The door was pulled open roughly and Ros came in, nearly running into Ruth.

"The Home Secretary is on the news, Harry," Ros says, barely looking at Ruth. "You should really watch."

Harry nods.

"Thank you, Ros."

The dismissal is faint, but nevertheless there, and Ruth sees a momentary flash of pain in Ros' eyes that quickly disappears.

"Always pleased to help."

Her voice had taken on _that_ tone; the one where Ruth could never tell if she is being sarcastic. As Ros spun on her heel and marched out, Ruth pushed that thought to the back of her mind.

"As I was saying..."

Jo is dead.

Ruth chokes at Harry's words and she holds a hand over her mouth, trying to suppress the sobs which wrack through her body. Her chest hurts, her eyes burn and her body feels weak. She leans against the wall to make sure she doesn't fall and closes her eyes, willing Harry's words not to be true.

Heels snap behind her, instantly recognisable, and she hears Ros' chair scratch against the floor as she pulls it out. Ruth finally gathers her composure enough to turn and finds the blonde typing steadily. She looks as she always does, hair in place, make-up immaculate, nothing to suggest she has just watched a colleague die.

"Ros...?" she ventures.

The blonde turns and Ruth sees the red rims around her irises, making her eyes seem greener than usual, bordering on jade.

It seemed that she did feel things; that she wasn't an emotionless machine.

"Yes?" Ros asks.

"Are you...?"

Harry's door opens and he pokes his head out. He looks impossibly serious and Ruth fancies that she sees Ros flinch slightly where she sits.

"Ros, a word."

She rises to her feet and crosses the Grid, closing the door behind her. Ruth can hear nothing of their conversation but watches as Ros falls into one of the chairs and looks down at the floor.

Ruth feels like an intruder and turns away.

Something has changed between them.

Harry is more gentle, Ros more forthcoming, and Ruth feels a stab of jealousy. Ros swivels in her chair and turns toward Harry; her posture is relaxed and she drapes one arm along the back of the chair.

Realisation hits her.

Ros doesn't allow familiarity with just anyone, if she were honest Ruth hadn't seen it with anyone else, and to see it with Harry...

Ruth looks down at the floor.

Three years is a long time; perhaps she was a fool for thinking he would wait. She had met George and Harry had turned to Ros. And why not? The blonde was smart, attractive, and understood the harsher aspects of this line of work better than Ruth ever could.

It still hurt.

Ruth is confused.

Harry has taken a step backward in time; things are as they were before her 'death,' but this time Ros seems to have faded into the background.

By choice it seems.

Ruth only sees it occasionally; those eyes fixed on her person, a moment of wistfulness quickly suppressed, a return to work.

Ruth also sees that Lucas is different.

She wonders if the two are inter-related.

" _Harry, would you like to go for a drink?"  
_ " _Yes, Ruth, I would."_

She isn't sure what prompted her sudden invitation; maybe a burst of courage, but she feels definite irritation when Tariq breaks into the conversation.

It's as if she's playing a game, and she doesn't know the rules and she's fighting blind.

" _Lucas, talk to her!"_

Ros is inside; Ros is in danger; Harry is getting on her nerves.

He paces his office, talking with Lucas, talking with Special Forces, talking to himself, talking to anyone. He's been like this for the past two hours, since Ros has been inside alone. They have Lucas on loudspeaker and Ruth and Harry turn to each other when they hear the unmistakeable sound of an explosion. Harry's face pales and he swallows, as if to stop himself from being sick. They wait for Lucas to speak and when he does, Ruth's supposition is right.

" _The Home Secretary is fine, Harry, but Ros..."_

Lucas doesn't finish his sentence.

He doesn't need to.

Ros' funeral is simple; a few words from the priest, a short eulogy by Lucas and – of course – a poem from Malcolm. Ruth sits in the crowd, next to Harry, whose eyes are filled with tears that haven't fallen. They don't fall as they watch Ros' coffin being lowered, nor as they walk away, but as he gets into his car, Ruth sees him lose his composure. He sits in the driver's seat, leaning forward, his forehead nearly touching the steering wheel.

Unsure what else to do, she crosses to the car and gets inside.

She remains silent, not knowing what to say.

The Grid feels empty without Ros, and she's like a spectre that refuses to fade. Harry's eyes wander often to her empty desk, and she frequently sees his expression fall when they don't find her blonde figure.

Ruth watches from the background, unsure what to do.

Six months later, they are sitting at a restaurant drinking wine, and Ruth blurts out a question she isn't sure she wants to know the answer to.

"Did you love her, Harry?"

His eyes show surprise for a brief second, before he dips his head and looks at the white tablecloth. She waits while he deliberates his answer.

"Yes," he says finally, and it sounds as if he's only realised it himself. "In a way, I did."

Ruth quirks an eyebrow.

"In a way?"

He nods. "Yes, in a way."

His answer is cryptic, though anything involving Ros Myers is bound to be complicated.

However, Ruth thinks as her eyes scan the wine list, it's an answer she is comfortable with.

* * *

 **Author's notes:** See? I can't write Harry/Ruth. It feels all clunky.  
Hope you enjoyed it nevertheless.  
 _Odainath_


	10. Resurrection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's notes:** And we're back on the daily track! Wahoo! Right, so you guys know the drill. Give me a word, I'll write a story.

**Author's notes:** And we're back on the daily track! Wahoo! Right, so you guys know the drill. Give me a word, I'll write a story.

This word is 'resurrection' from zulu_ottawa on livejournal.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Spooks; it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

* * *

To this day Ros isn't sure how he managed it.

All she knows is that she's glad he did.

Ros moves frequently; every two weeks or so, and this time she finds herself in a town whose name she can barely pronounce. The receptionist straightens in her chair, eyes roaming over her body in a manner that on another person would be voyeuristic.

Instead, Ros thinks that so little happens that the appearance of a stranger is an event to be imprinted on the mind.

Her stomach twists; she can think of little worse.

The clock above her bed doesn't move, Ros having taken out the batteries soon after she arrived, tired of the persistent _tick-tock_. She prefers quiet, finds stillness soothing, and anything that makes an extraneous noise she has come to loathe.

Her neighbours fit in that category.

She tries not to listen to their arguing, but the woman's voice is shrill and pierces her ears.

The man no better.

Ros closes her eyes and pretends she is underwater, where it is quiet.

The dull _'thunk'_ and the woman's sudden silence break this quickly. Ros sits up, listening hard, and rises to her feet.

Still nothing.

Senses on alert she crosses her apartment and goes into the hall, pressing her ear against her neighbour's door. She hears footsteps and is forced to take a step backward when the it is flung open and the man storms out, nearly knocking her over. He sneers as his eyes fall on her slight figure.

"What are you looking – _ah_!"

Ros rolls her eyes as he falls to the ground after a quick punch to the stomach.

Pathetic.

Inside, the woman stops crying and Ros swears she hears a faint laugh.

She walks with her head held high.

Russia is surprisingly warm, enough that she has discarded her heavy coat in favour of a lighter jacket. She sends a brief thanks to Adam; he provided her with enough money that she doesn't have to work.

She is dead. And the dead don't receive paycheques.

Ros finds it oddly liberating.

She visits the church.

And not just because it's where she's stashed a passport and several thousand dollars.

She simply likes it; the quiet, the atmosphere, the meeting place of her three worlds.

Before, during, and after death.

She looks upward and finds it ironic when her eyes fall on a statue of Jesus Christ.

" _Hello, Rosalind."_

" _Harry? How did you-?"_

The small room she has rented is as far removed from her _real_ world that the phone call which serves to link the two is both welcome and disconcerting. That voice, _his_ voice, so authoritative even over a phone line strikes her dumb for long enough that he asks her if she is still there. Her answer, spoken in a croaky voice, is simple and matter-of-fact.

" _Yes, what do you need?"_

And there it is; a chance to come back, the possibility of return.

Ros can't help but smile.

* * *

 **Author's notes:** Short and (hopefully) sweet.  
Please review,  
 _Odainath._


	11. Purple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's notes:** I am still quite shocked that I'm being consistent with this... lol. Usual drill, people; give me a word and I'll write a story. I have 42 now, all which are listed on my profile. If you've given me a prompt and it's not there, please tell me. I thought I'd got them all but I could easily have missed something. I seem to be having 'blonde days' more frequently recently.

**Author's notes:** I am still quite shocked that I'm being consistent with this... lol. Usual drill, people; give me a word and I'll write a story. I have 42 now, all which are listed on my profile. If you've given me a prompt and it's not there, please tell me. I thought I'd got them all but I could easily have missed something. I seem to be having 'blonde days' more frequently recently.

Today's word is from Rudi and is 'purple' with the extra proviso of a Harry/Ros relationship.

Now, I've written Harry/Ros stories from Ros, Ruth, Lucas and I have a Connie in the works point-of-views but never Harry. Hopefully it's not too clunky. And yes, this is basically prompt 7 from Harry's POV.

Enjoy!

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Spooks; it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

* * *

Adam is dead.

Kachimov is dead.

And yet Harry feels nothing. He has just murdered somebody and he feels nothing. No remorse, no satisfaction of revenge, just an emotion chasm that potentially might never be filled. He swills the scotch in the tumbler, watching the amber liquid nearly spill over the brim. It is displacement activity, he knows that, anything to stop him thinking about Adam and Kachimov.

He closes his eyes and drinks the rest of the scotch in one swallow.

Adam.

Kachimov.

Ros.

His eyes snap open; Ros is still here despite everything, still strong, now the only person who has an inkling of what he is _not_ feeling. He rises to his feet and crosses to the hallway, shrugging his coat over his shoulders. It is late, he knows that, but he is absolutely sure Ros will still be awake.

He is right, Ros is not asleep, but unlike him she has at least _tried_. When she opens the door, she does not look at all surprised to see him, and merely steps back, allowing him inside. They stand together in the centre, neither speaking, neither knowing what to say.

Ros breaks the silence.

" _Drink?"  
_ " _Please."_

She goes to the small fridge and withdraws a small bottle of scotch. He merely watches as she pours him a glass and he downs it in one go, not caring that it burns his throat. Ros sits down on the couch and is looking at the floor. Blonde hair falls forward, out-of-place, and without thinking Harry pulls her to her feet. A moment of uncertainty flickers in her eyes but almost instantly disappears and she doesn't protest when he cups her cheek in his hand. She looks almost delicate and for the first time he realises how _small_ she is. At work, she is larger-than-life, a force to be reckoned with, but right now, when he can feel the fine bone structure beneath his fingers, he sees that she is human.

Ros reaches out, almost hesitantly, and deftly undoes his tie, the purple silk falling to the ground between them. She looks up, and he sees uncertainty once again.

Perhaps this is why he kisses her.

She responds quickly and snakes one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer towards her. In turn, he finds himself pushing her towards the bed, hands skimming up-and-down her sides. This is dangerous; he knows that, but when they reach the bed he finds himself not caring.

He can think about it tomorrow.

The morning after isn't awkward as he had expected. When he wakes and feels Ros' body beneath his hands, he does the only thing that seems logical.

He draws her closer.

They stay that way as long as possible.

 _Danger, danger._

Ros proves to him, to the politicians, to herself that she is the right woman for the job, but as he walks past her that evening he knows she feels guilt over the two police officers. He isn't sure what to do, so merely bids her 'good night' and keeps walking.

He hopes that is the right thing.

Later, when he sees her car pull up in his street, he realises he was wrong, but also knows he can fix this. Ros stands outside, hesitant, for a full five minutes and Harry grows impatient and opens the door before she can knock.

She says nothing and moves past.

Harry is quietly pleased when she stays the night.

" _Should we be doing this?"_

She asked this question yesterday and Harry raises an eyebrow, even as he pushes a cup of coffee towards her. They are in her flat, which is closer to Thames House, finally conceding temporary defeat in finding the Tigetian missile. It is an operation which falls more under MI-6's jurisdiction, but Harry wants to mount his own operation.

"What do you think?" he asks, taking a sip.

Ros is somewhat of a coffee connoisseur he has come to know, and this particular blend is his favourite.

"I think..." she pauses, biting her lip briefly. "I think we have work to do."

Harry smiles. "Yes, so do I."

" _Where are you?"  
_ " _Meynell's hotel room."_

Those three words repeat themselves in Harry's mind like a record whose needle stays firmly in the groove. Honey-trap operations can go horribly wrong, especially for women, and to hear the slight tremor in Ros' voice, _his_ Ros' voice...

He pushes his foot down on the accelerator.

Ros' skin is red-raw and he merely looks at her for several moments before pulling her close to his chest. She won't talk of what happened, he knows that, and neither will he but he hopes he can offer comfort.

When he feels tears seep through his shirt, he knows his hopes have been realised.

" _Shh..."_

Sugarhorse is compromised.

He decides to tell the one person who he truly wants to. As if on automatic pilot, he reaches for the phone and dials a number that has become as familiar as his own.

She answers on the third ring.

" _Myers."  
_ " _Ros, could you...?"_

She hangs up the phone before he can finish his sentence and twenty minutes later is sitting on his sofa, legs curled beneath her, eyes attentive.

Bernard has betrayed his country, him, every one. Harry's sense of grievances is almost overwhelming and he clenches the armrests, trying not to think of it. The SAS will be here soon, he knows that, and he looks straight ahead.

He debates calling Ros but ultimately decides against it.

He needs her on the Grid, where she can uncover the information needed to prove his innocence.

He closes his eyes briefly; he needs her.

" _First, I want to talk to Ros Myers."_

Harry waits and soon enough hears Ros' heels snapping against the floor. She appears as composed as ever but he sees the way her eyes narrow when they fall on his handcuffed wrists.

" _Can you at least give him a glass of water?"  
_ " _I'm afraid not."_

Ros glares briefly but returns her attention to him and sits down. Back straight, hair immaculate, icy demeanour firmly in place and she looks as she always does.

" _None of this is true, is it?"  
_ " _I'm afraid it is."_

Guilt floods through his veins at the widening of her eyes, the way her mouth falls ajar briefly, her neck tightens. She says nothing and he presses on, willing her to look past his words and into his eyes which, he hopes, scream the truth. At least to her.

" _I betrayed you and the entire team. I gave the names of my Sugarhorse assets to the FSB. I can understand how you must feel but in mitigation my priority has been the renaissance, the renaissance of something I believe in profoundly."_

He dips his head, hating the betrayal that emanates from her in waves.

" _I'm very sorry, Ros."_

She still appears shocked but looks across to Grady, paying him no further attention.

" _Can you let me out now?"_

She leaves without a word and Harry wants to pull her back.

Instead he writes down a list of names.

It takes Ros only minutes to decipher his message and soon he is back on the Grid. Connie is in custody, Lucas is on his way back and Ben... Ben is dead, his throat slit with piano wire. Ros' eyes are red-rimmed, not from grief for he knows she didn't particularly care for Ben, but for the fact yet _another_ person from Section D has lost their life. She sits down opposite him, head bowed.

"I..." she begins.

He knows she wants to offer an apology and stops her in her tracks.

"You recognised 'renaissance.'"

She looks up, puzzled. "Yes, what does-?"

"I knew you would."

She opens her mouth to speak but he interrupts.

"Come home with me?"

Ros smiles.

"Of course."

Ros is out there with Connie and Lucas.

Harry hides his panic well as he coordinates with Jo and Malcolm. Ros is more-than-capable, one of the best agents he's ever had, and he knows he shouldn't worry.

Nevertheless, he does.

The trunk of the car is small, cramped, and Harry fights with the bonds around his wrists to no avail. Sarkissian has taken him god-knows-where and Harry is under no illusions as to what will be done to him. An officer of his rank, with his knowledge, is a prized asset and the torture he will undoubtedly endure will be horrific.

He closes his eyes and prays for his team to find him.

Ruth.

The woman he loved, the woman who was forced to leave three years ago. She screams for her husband, for her step-son, and Harry hates himself even as he refuses to tell Mani the location of the uranium. It is more important than one man, one child, and he wills Ruth to realise this.

When she screams he knows that she doesn't.

He closes his eyes and tries not to listen but finds he can't.

" _Shoot the boy."  
_ " _Harry!"_

The silence is deafening as he juts his chin forward, still refusing to tell, and relief threatens to overwhelm him as he hears the sound of thundering footsteps. Mani comes towards him with a knife, ready to slit his throat, and Lucas bursts into the room and shoots.

Ros follows but he finds he can't look at her, not when Ruth's eyes are full of such hatred.

Perhaps Ros knows this for she doesn't spare him a second glance as she cuts through his bonds, simply standing and walking away.

" _Are we in agreement about that?"  
_ " _Absolutely."_

They fall back into a work routine but it's forced, with none of its usual flow, and Harry clenches his jaw as Ros leaves his office, slamming the door behind her with more force than is strictly necessary. It is not a lover's spat, neither of them are prone to such things.

That's what he tells himself anyway.

Bebe is dead and Harry feels a twinge of guilt. Usually, he would speak with Ros about such things, but now... since Ruth's return, it hardly seems right. Instead, he walks past her with a cursory goodbye which she doesn't bother returning. She has become even colder, more ruthless, which isn't a good thing.

As he walks through the pods he glances over his shoulder and sees Lucas watching Ros from his desk. The two are well-suited, he thinks, both with their own inner-demons, the same recklessness.

He still doesn't want Lucas anywhere near her.

It's possessive and unfair but, then again, emotions are not governed by logic.

Jo is dead by Ros' hand.

Harry knows Ros had no choice but is also well-aware that self-flagellation is one of the blonde's specialities. This, he tells himself, is why he stands on her doorstep at three o'clock in the morning. He doesn't hear her walk across the apartment and starts when she opens the door. She has been crying, that much is obvious, and when she sees him she covers her mouth, holding back a sob.

He touches her shoulder gently and she falls into him.

" _Shh..."_

She pulls herself together until she is composed and takes a step back. Up close, he can see the tear tracks on her cheeks and he reaches up and cups her face in his hand. It is a throw-back to their first night together and he doesn't stop her as she leans forward and brushes her lips against his.

Ruth, Jo, everything disappears.

 _Danger, danger._

Asleep, she looks impossibly different.

Eyes closed, hair tussled and out-of-place, cheek obscured by the white pillow and he finds it difficult to reconcile her with the woman she is at work. He notices that the sheet has shifted at some point, slipping down and exposing her shoulder, and when he touches her skin it is ice-cold. Gently, he pulls at the covers but stops when she places her hand over his.

"What's wrong?" she murmurs, voice hoarse.

"You're cold."

"Oh."

She is already asleep again and Harry places his arm around her and pulls her close. Her body is lithe, almost hard, unlike any other woman he's ever been with and he traces circles on her stomach with his thumb. Once again, her hand covers his.

"Sleep," she says softly.

He rests his chin on her shoulder as he closes his eyes and listens to her breathing.

As he holds her close, he realises three things.

One. That he can't live in the past.

Two. That he and Ros are almost the same person.

Three. That he has well and truly fallen.

* * *

 **Author's notes:** Sorry this took two days but it is about twice as long as the others so please forgive me. Rudi, if you're reading this, I know the only mention of 'purple' was Harry's tie but I honestly could not figure out where to put it.

Please review,

 _Odainath._


	12. Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's notes** :I'm moving away from my Harry/Ros obsession for a while so these next few are a tad different.

**Author's notes** :I'm moving away from my Harry/Ros obsession for a while so these next few are a tad different.

Today's word is 'smoke' from Pearl sun.

As always enjoy and please review.

 **Disclaimer** :I do not own Spooks; it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

* * *

" _Give me one good reason why I shouldn't pull the trigger."_

The woman's voice sends a shiver down Sarah's spine and she blinks as she feels the gun barrel pressed hard against the base of her skull. Sarah looks ahead and sees Ros' reflection in the glass window, half-transparent, half-real.

"Would you do that to a kindred spirit?"she asks, hoping to unbalance the other woman.

Ros' expression doesn't change even as she releases the safety catch.

A bitter laugh.

"Especially to a kindred spirit."

The hallway where they stand is dark and Ros is swathed in shadows, still intangible despite being so close Sarah could reach out and touch her skin. A stray beam of light falls on her face, showing the sharp lines and hard eyes, before she fades once again into the black.

"We're the same, you and I," Sarah says.

Ros tilts her head a fraction to the side.

"Someone once said something similar to me," she says eventually.

"Oh?"

"Yes, less than two hours later they were dead."

Ice floods through Sarah's veins as she realises there is no possibility she will survive this exchange.

"Now, you tell me everything."

Words tumble from Sarah's mouth as if of their own accord. Ros listens, stance not wavering, the gun still pointed directly between her eyes. Sarah realises she has never verbalised her reasons for joining Nightingale and they sound foreign to her ears, a mess of circumstance and decisions which in hindsight seem foolish.

Her voice lowers as she nears the finish but she doesn't look away. The streetlamp outside flickers, makes Ros an illusion that may or may not be real, and as Sarah blinks she wills Ros to disappear.

She doesn't.

"Aren't you going to pull the trigger?" Sarah asks when Ros doesn't speak for a full five minutes.

"Undoubtedly," Ros answers immediately.

"Then why haven't you?"

She shrugs.

"I'm not entirely sure."

Sarah leans against the wall, her back flush against the cold wood.

"My intentions were good," she says suddenly, breaking the silence that has grown between the two of them.

"And look what happened."

Sarah looks briefly at the floor and hears Ros take a step back, her heels ringing in the enclosed space.

A flash of light, the sound of a bullet and then...

Then nothing.

* * *

Ros doesn't think of Sarah Caulfield often, she has never been one to dwell on the past, but on quiet days her thoughts wander. She sometimes wishes she could have talked further with the American, for a reason she rarely admits.

It would be like talking to a mirror.

Ros looks at her own reflection in the computer screen, fancies she can see Sarah Caulfield somewhere in her green eyes.

Then Harry leans over her shoulder and Sarah disappears like smoke in the wind.

* * *

 **Author's notes** : You've got to admit, the two of them share a heap of similarities. Ros, of course, is much cooler. Lol.  
Please review,  
 _Odainath._


	13. Neglect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's notes:** Lucky 13!

**Author's notes:** Lucky 13!

Prompt is 'neglect' from Londonspook on livejournal.

Enjoy and please review!

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Spooks; it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

* * *

The first time Harry noticed the ultimately fatal change, he dismissed the idea immediately. After all, this was Ros he was seeing; _Ros,_ the woman who prided herself on composure, who it was rumoured had ice running through her veins, who could pull the trigger on a colleague.

A woman like that couldn't just let herself go.

Could she?

She didn't fix her hair.

It seems ridiculous, but that should have been a warning. Harry remembers looking up from his desk, eyes scanning the Grid, looking at his team. Ruth was buried in her research; Lucas was typing and Ros was writing a report.

A strand of hair fell and – unusually – she didn't brush it back and simply let it hang.

It didn't make sense.

At least it didn't then, now it seems perfectly logical.

Ros wasn't afraid of death; it was why she and Adam fit so well together. She loved the thrill, the exhilaration that this time, _this_ time she might not return.

Harry knew this and that was why he turned a blind eye when she took more risks, put herself in more danger. Surely, it was a simple evolution; as she got better, the risks got bigger.

Right?

She slackened in her seat, back no longer ram-rod straight. Instead, it curved and she slouched (well it was a slouch by Ros' standards), and leant forward slightly in her chair. It was too casual, too at ease, too un-Ros-like.

When Harry remembers this he inwardly kicks himself and asks 'why', why didn't he notice?

He knows the answer.

He couldn't deal with it.

Mascara.

Ros' make-up was always immaculate, she could return from anything and still look as she always did; cool and composed. That was why he recalls simply staring when she entered his office and handed him a file.

A black smudge beneath her right eye.

"Ros," he remembers saying, gesturing towards her, "you... ah..."

She raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"Yes, Harry?"

"Your mascara..."

She wiped her eye, seemingly unsurprised when her fingertip turned black.

"Oh, it's run," she said, almost absent-mindedly.

Then she shrugged and walked out the door.

Harry simply stared.

Leaner.

Harder.

Colder.

Already slim, Ros seemed to harden in front of him. Already strong, she trained harder, pushed herself further, which he'd never thought possible. Harry thinks of Lucas, coming into the Grid, smelling faintly of sweat. He learns that the two were forced to chase a suspect and that Ros got to him first.

He remembers Lucas incredulation.

And his own internal 'ah' of comprehension then – predictably – the way he refused to believe she was letting herself go.

" _Saving Baisley won't bring Jo back."  
_ " _No."_

She made a joke and moved on.

And so did he.

Now, Harry sometimes wonders that if he had placed her on mandatory leave and sent her to Tring, she might still be here.

It seems unlikely but the guilt still weighs on his shoulders.

A loose strand of cotton.

He, Lucas and Ros were to meet the Home Secretary and they were getting ready to go when he heard her swear beneath her breath. He turned and saw her tug at her shirt sleeve. The cotton was barely two-inches long, but it left a slight hole in an otherwise pristine shirt.

And yet she didn't seem to care.

 _Danger, danger._

In hindsight, it screams at him in neon lights.

At the time, he simply shrugged both literally and metaphorically.

Now, looking at her grave, he remembers the three warning signs.

Hair out-of-place; mascara beneath her eye; and a loose strand of cotton. All so mundane, all perfectly normal for an ordinary person.

All so wrong for Rosalind Myers.

He touches the grey headstone and closes his eyes.

" _I'm very sorry, Ros."_

It's the second time he's said that to her, but this time she isn't here to wave away his apology.

He saw the warning signs and he ignored them.

He knows the guilt he feels will never assuage.

And is grateful.

* * *

 **Author's notes:** So... a tad depressing.  
Please review,  
 _Odainath_


	14. Rebuild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's notes:** I am sorry for delaying this one; I thought I'd wait until after 8.08 to see if Ros was deceased and then decide whether or not to keep going. Having seen it, and finding out it's a bloody cliff-hanger, I choose to believe she is very much alive.

**Author's notes:** I am sorry for delaying this one; I thought I'd wait until after 8.08 to see if Ros was deceased and then decide whether or not to keep going. Having seen it, and finding out it's a bloody cliff-hanger, I choose to believe she is very much alive.

Today's word is 'rebuild' from zulu_ottawa.

Enjoy and please review.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Spooks; it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

* * *

It happens quickly, in the blink of an eye. One moment Ros is dragging the Home Secretary through the hotel corridors, the next she is flying through the air surrounded by debris, still holding Andrew Lawrence close.

And then...

Then nothing.

Nothing is replaced by something when Ros wakes. All she can see is white, all she can hear is a voice that sounds familiar, but her head throbs and she can't focus. The voice rises and falls in a steady rhythm, comforting in its repetition, but stops abruptly when her breath hitches.

"Ros?"

She turns her head to find Andrew Lawrence at her bedside. He looks worse-for-wear; his arm in a sling, bandages showing from beneath his clothes, but his smile is genuine.

"You okay?" he asks.

Ros moves, winces, falls back into the mattress.

"I've been better."

People visit as if in procession. Harry, Ruth, Lucas, Tariq, all wishing her well, all hoping she recovers. Ros is quietly hopeful she will return to full fitness. Sure, her right leg was broken in three places, a number of ribs cracked, a lung punctured, but she was – if anything – tenacious and her physio sessions go well, her teacher recording 'astounding progress.'

Ros doesn't care; she just wants to be back on the Grid.

Andrew Laurence visits regularly, though she is often asleep. It doesn't bother her as much as it should; a shared near-death experience, she has found, tends to break down some of the boundaries she has laboriously built over the years. She wakes one night to find him speaking aloud. His legs are crossed and he rests a book against his thigh, writing on a pad of paper. She wants to laugh at the expression of extreme concentration as he frowns, puts his pen to paper, and crosses out a word.

"What on earth are you doing?" she asks, propping herself up onto her elbows.

It's a move that two weeks ago would have sent a jolt of pain through her body; now, the jolt is less and she is quietly proud of herself as she keeps the pose.

"Ah," he says, and she notices a blush rise in his cheeks. "I was... practicing a speech."

She raises an eyebrow, props herself upward further.

"Practicing a speech?" she repeats, incredulous.

He straightens, juts his chin forward.

"Usually, I don't have an audience."

Ros laughs, and for once it is not sarcastic, rather it is real.

"Maybe you should."

She refuses the morphine, hating the way it makes her nauseas and tired, literally grinding her teeth to stop herself making a noise of pain. It keeps her lucid, and she is awake more often. It means she is no longer sleeping during Andrew's visits, something which is at first uncomfortable for both of them. This lessens as the days go on, and she finds she enjoys his company. Odd, for she has generally felt contempt for politicians.

Soon enough, the conversation turns personal. He asks of her father, not pressing when her answer is curt. She knows he will have looked up her record, but is grateful he doesn't mention this. It is better for her to pretend she is speaking to someone who doesn't know her past.

And Andrew is a good actor.

Ros is released from hospital and is surprised when Andrew is there to help her pack the few possessions she had Harry bring her from home. He drives her back to her flat, staying inside as she gets out, only following when she gives a nod of ascent.

It's oddly gentleman-like, something Ros has almost forgotten as she's got older.

Her flat looks Spartan, and she wrinkles her nose as she opens the fridge, making a mental note to clean the contents as soon as possible. Andrew hangs in the background, smiling as she turns and opens her mouth to apologise.

"There's always take-out."

She laughs, not protesting when he dials an obviously familiar number.

It is too familiar, _they_ are too familiar, she realises as the take-away is delivered. Oddly enough, she doesn't care. It is comforting to speak to someone who isn't in the Security Service.

"Covert liaison," she says suddenly.

Andrew raises his eyebrows.

"Well, you wanted a sexier title than 'back channel.'"

It is sarcastic, and Ros knows then that she is truly on her way to recovery.

Another night, another dinner, and it seems like a natural evolution when he kisses her as he goes to leave. Ros hesitates briefly but then he touches her shoulder gently and she finds herself parting her lips.

As his other hand raises to cup her cheek, she wonders how on earth this has happened.

And decides she doesn't particularly care for answers.

The Grid is much the same and Harry removes the kid-gloves he temporarily wears when she threatens to shoot him.

It is a sign she has recovered, and they both know it.

" _I've just spoken with Andrew..."_

Ros feels everyone's eyes widen at her words and inwardly kicks herself. A relationship between a Senior Security Officer and the Home Secretary is potential political suicide.

"Andrew?" Lucas says, voice teasing.

"That is his name, is it not?" she snaps.

Ros glares, her eyes travelling around the table, until they land on Harry whose face shows no emotion.

"What did the Home Secretary have to say, Ros?" he asks, glossing over her slip of the tongue.

She closes her eyes briefly, thankful for his discretion.

Harry does not approve, that much is obvious as they walk through Whitehall, and Ros is reminded of a conversation she had with Andrew a few months ago.

" _The more I looked for his approval, the more he seemed to withhold it."  
_ " _Maybe, you should stop looking for approval."_

She smiles, takes a breath before entering Andrew's office.

And decides to take her own advice.

* * *

 **Author's notes:** I know, it doesn't really work, but the best I could come up with at the moment. And hey, I can always re-write it.  
Please review,  
 _Odainath_


	15. Tender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's notes:** I've got a lot of prompts but most are from the same people (you know who you are. Lol.) I have no problem with this in the slightest but if any other reader/s wish to give me a prompt, please don't hesitate. The more the merrier.

**Author's notes:** I've got a lot of prompts but most are from the same people (you know who you are. Lol.) I have no problem with this in the slightest but if any other reader/s wish to give me a prompt, please don't hesitate. The more the merrier.

Today's word is 'tender' from Londonspook.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Spooks; it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

* * *

" _Ros? How long have we got?"  
_ " _Not long."_

Never truer words were spoken. Andrew can hear the nearly imperceptible tremor in Ros' voice, can feel the way her arms are shuddering with exertion as she pulls him through the corridor, her hot breath against his cheek.

It's oddly comforting.

Then a tremendous _'bang'_ and they are flying through the air. At some point Ros twists and when they crash against the ground, he is protected from the debris by her slim body. Pieces of wall fly towards them, bouncing off Ros' figure, and he hates himself for not being able to move, for not being able to help the woman who has just saved his life.

"Ros?" he whispers, hoping desperately for a response.

Nothing.

It takes time for the paramedics to get to them, and the nerve agent has abated enough that he is able to sit upright. Ros is still and he fears the worst until he touches his fingers to her neck and feels the faint pulse. He moves her until she is on her back and pulls her close so she is lying across his legs. She weighs next-to-nothing and he finds it difficult to reconcile this petite woman with the one who has just dragged him through a maze of corridors.

Her blonde hair is covered in dust and grime, and blood seeps out across her hairline. He presses his hand over the wound, stemming the bleeding, and prays for the medics to get here sooner.

The paramedics arrive and annoyance flares in his chest when they focus their attention on him and not Ros. A few choice words later and she is on a stretcher, a mask fitted over her mouth, and he follows behind with his arm in a make-shift sling.

Journalists and photographers flock towards them but he declines to give a statement, more interested in following the blonde who has just been loaded into the ambulance.

Guilt doesn't begin to describe how he feels.

The heart monitor keeps a steady beat, which he knows is a good sign, but the sight of Ros Myers in a hospital bed seems wrong. She should be out there, fighting the good fight, defeating the 'bad guys.'

"She wouldn't have had it any other way."

He turns at the sound of Lucas North's voice, who looks at Ros with something that could be described as both annoyance and admiration. He remembers the other man's reluctance to leave her behind, the way she ordered him to go without raising her voice, the way he had obeyed without argument.

"Really?" Andrew asks.

"Yes."

He turns back to Ros, who shifts slightly.

The guilt doesn't abate.

Andrew returns to work, though finds that the hospital is like a magnet. He brings along papers, working at her bedside, and occasionally reads his speeches aloud. He often does at home, but his empty flat is not at all welcoming and he much prefers it here; no matter how uncomfortable the chair or how bad the coffee.

He tries not to admit that it has anything to do with the blonde lying in the bed.

Ros is released from hospital a month later and doesn't say anything, doesn't look surprised, when he arrives just as she finishes packing. He had given the nurse his number, instructing her to call him the moment she knew the time Ros was leaving.

"Let me give you a hand," he says, moving forward and taking the box she holds in her arms.

She gives a faint smile.

"Thank you."

They grow closer, over coffee and take-out dinners, but it still takes two months before he is comfortable enough to lean forward as he goes to leave, and kiss her gently. He feels her stiffen and goes to draw back, but then she parts her lips, and he raises his hand to cup her cheek. She was so _small_ , he realises, remembering how the same thought ran through his mind when they were in the corridor together, when he had the horrible thought she might be dead.

That she might be dead trying to save him.

He reaches out and holds her waist, pulling her closer.

She lies on her stomach, head to the side, hair splayed out over the pillow. A white sheet is draped across her body, though her back remains bare, and he runs his fingers along her spine. They meet a small scar between her shoulders and he stops.

"I got that two years into the Service," she says, jolting him from his observations.

"Oh."

He knows then that the scars on her body; some large, some small, all tell stories that he wants to hear.

* * *

 **Author's notes:** Soppy, I know, but we all need fluff occasionally.  
Please review,  
 _Odainath_


	16. Underground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's notes:** I am sorry for the long break in my 'daily' word prompts. Real life etcetera has been getting in the way.

**Author's notes:** I am sorry for the long break in my 'daily' word prompts. Real life etcetera has been getting in the way.

Anyway, today's word(s) are 'the Underground' from Afiakate.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Spooks; it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

* * *

" _Hello, Ros."  
_ " _Hello, yourself."_

Ros is instantly recognisable on the platform; her platinum blonde hair acting as a beacon. She stands next to an unfamiliar man, a touch too close, and Malcolm watches as she slips what he recognises as a tracker into his jacket pocket. It's done in a matter of moments, and an instant later Malcolm finds himself questioning what he has just seen. She glances up at the screen, looking at the train times, and Malcolm sees her eyes widen as she spots him in the screen's reflection. She doesn't move, gives no further indication she knows he is there, and without thinking about his actions he walks forward until they stand shoulder-to-shoulder.

She says nothing, and to the outside world they would look like two strangers, not two people who had worked together for four years.

"How are you?" he whispers, not wanting to be overheard.

She turns to the side, and he inwardly reels. She appears tired, her make-up not quite enough to hide the dark smudges beneath her eyes. There is something else as well, something he can't quite put his finger on.

"I'm fine," she answers, the oft-used lie spilling from her mouth with ease.

"And everyone else?"

At this, her jaw clenches, her throat tightens and he waits for her to answer.

"Fine," she says finally.

He nods. "Good."

Neither speak, and after a moment Ros turns on her heel and walks away, soon lost in the crowd.

–

He calls Ruth that night, the look in Ros' eyes playing in his mind, not allowing him to rest.

" _Jo's dead?"  
_ " _Yes, and Ros was the one who pulled the trigger."_

Malcolm finishes the conversation soon after that revelation and replaces the receiver carefully, his thoughts in turmoil. That Jo, someone so young, could be dead, seems unbelievable and yet he knows Ruth's words are true.

He can now place what he couldn't that morning.

Guilt.

Malcolm looks at the floor and wonders how long it will be before Ros succumbs to its incubus.

* * *

 **Author's notes:** Short and sweet.  
Please review,  
 _Odainath_


	17. Surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's notes:** Today's prompt is 'surprises' from emerald_happy with the extra condition of a Ros/Andrew relationship. I'm combining it with Code-9 but please remember I've never actually seen it.

**Author's notes:** Today's prompt is 'surprises' from emerald_happy with the extra condition of a Ros/Andrew relationship. I'm combining it with Code-9 but please remember I've never actually seen it.

Enjoy!

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Spooks; it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

* * *

 **Surprises**

* * *

" _You need to evacuate parliament."  
_ " _What about you?"_

–

Andrew grips the phone receiver far harder than necessary, waiting for her to respond. The seconds pass, seeming like millennia, and he finds that he is holding his breath.

" _Just get on the helicopter, Andrew."_

And with that, she is gone, her voice replaced by a dial tone.

–

Twelve minutes isn't enough, and Andrew dives to the ground as an explosion sounds. Windows shatter, showering him with glass, and he keeps his head down until all he can hear is silence. He gets to his feet and peers through the broken window. There, not too far away, he can see a plume of dark smoke that rises higher and higher until it obscures the sun. He is riveted to the ground, unable to look away from the scenes of devastation. The screams begin, echoing in the hallways, but still Andrew doesn't move.

That London, _London_ , could be the site of such an attack seems unbelievable.

However, the evidence in front of him is irrefutable.

–

Andrew walks through the streets, alone. He knows he will feel the effects of 'fall-out', but finds he doesn't care. He looks into the shadows without seeming to look. He is exposed here, in the London street, his escort having fled long ago. As he walks, not knowing where he is going, he undoes his tie, the silk wrapping around his fingers. He places the red material in his pocket, and proceeds to unbutton his shirt cuffs. There is no need for formality here, in this new desert.

It's strangely liberating, as if he's shedding extraneous skin, and he continues forward with a new sense of purpose.

Purpose for what, he has no idea.

–

Inevitably, he finds himself heading towards Thames House. His footsteps ring loudly against the pavement, or perhaps he has become more attuned to his surroundings. Whatever it is, he finds the repetition oddly soothing. Andrew reaches his destination and walks through the front door. There is no security to greet him, no sign-in sheet, and he travels through the corridors without meeting a soul. He supposes it is to be expected, most would have run at the first opportunity.

Inside, the building is a mess of shattered glass, and the pods are now pieces on the ground, utterly useless. Andrew steps carefully over the debris, surprised by how loud the _'crunch'_ of his footsteps are against this new-found silence. It is then that Andrew sees his first body. The woman is young, no more than thirty, and lies on her back , lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling.

He retches and leans forward, his fingers splayed against his thighs.

He closes his eyes; opens them again.

The dead woman remains.

Andrew turns, and heads back outside.

–

Days, perhaps weeks pass, and Andrew discovers he is more ruthless than he'd ever thought to imagine. He stops cringing at the sight of the dead, stops dry-retching at the smell, and learns instead how to scavenge. The fights for food are vicious, and sometimes he is not the victor, and he finds himself hiding beneath desks, giving his wounds time to heal.

Occasionally, he catches a glimpse of himself in shop windows or a shattered mirror, and is surprised by who he sees. Gone is the charming politician, to be replaced by someone, _something_ , else.

What this 'thing' is, he can't define.

–

 _Click._

The sound of a safety-catch being released sends a shiver down his spine, compounded tenfold when a gun barrel is pressed against the back of his skull. _This is it,_ he thinks, _this is it._ He has seen this type of gang, the ones 'lucky' enough to have weapons, and knows they take no prisoners. Their mantra is 'find and kill.'

"Turn around."

He hears the person move backward as he turns and his breath hitches. The dull torchlight throws her into shadow, obscuring her face, but he pictures the flash of recognition, then the disbelief that must be echoed in his own eyes. The grip she has on the gun doesn't lessen, and her arms don't waver as she points it directly between his eyes. She takes a step toward him until they are three-foot apart. The gun digs into his skin, so hard he thinks it will leave an impression, and he reaches upward and pushes it away. She doesn't move, and he touches her cheek. Slowly, he traces the lines of her face with the tips of his fingers.

"Ros," he breathes, half-expecting her to disappear.

Instead, she raises her hand and threads her fingers through his.

* * *

 **Author's notes:** A tenuous link to the prompt, I will concede.  
Please review,  
 _Odainath._


	18. Caught

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's notes:** Today's word is 'caught' from whimsical_toads.

**Author's notes:** Today's word is 'caught' from whimsical_toads.

Enjoy!

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Spooks; it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

* * *

 **Caught**

* * *

Harry's shoes squeak against the linoleum, grating to his ears, and he stops at the nurses station and nods towards Ros' room. He has become an almost permanent fixture, a ghost that arrives as visiting hours end. He is allowed in every time, a smile all it takes to be let past. It worries it at times, that it is so easy to get to his Section Chief, so much so that he has a guard at her door at all times. He knows it crosses the line from 'cautious' into 'paranoid' but doesn't care.

He turns the corner and steps into Ros' room, startled when his eyes fall on another.

"Home Secretary?"

Andrew Lawrence glances up from where he sits next to Ros' bedside. He has a book in his lap, a glass of water on the bedside table, and it is obvious he has been there for some time. Lawrence looks far different to how Harry remembers; his neatly pressed suit replaced by a more casual attire of jeans and a shirt; sutures show from beneath his hairline, and scars run over his arms, stark white against his skin.

"Harry," the other man greets, nodding towards him.

"What are you-?" Harry begins, for once wrong-footed.

"I've finally been allowed out of my room," Andrew says, pre-empting the rest of Harry's question. "I thought I'd pay Ros a visit."

Harry nods, not knowing what else to do. Lawrence turns back to Ros, and he rests his hand against hers. Asleep, Ros appears tranquil, hair splayed on the pillow, and Andrew reaches out and tucks a loose strand behind her ear.

"The nurses think she will make a full recovery," Andrew continues, withdrawing his hand.

"I know."

"Hm."

Harry stands at the doorway, and rocks on his heels, completely wrong-footed.

"I should-" he says.

"Of course," Andrew responds. "Just turn the light off on your way out; in case she wakes."

Harry nods and Lawrence turns on the bedside lamp, his book open once again. Harry flicks off the main light as requested. The room plunges into darkness, the lamp the only source of light, and Andrew's face is thrown into shadow. The lines at the edges of his mouth appear sharper, harder, and his scars gleam white against the black.

Harry watches for a moment before he leaves the room.

Andrew Lawrence doesn't move.

–

Ros wakes earlier than predicted, something which doesn't surprise Harry in the slightest.

"Welcome back to the world of the living, Ros," Andrew says, grinning.

She laughs softly, but chokes and Harry rushes forward, then stops. Andrew holds a glass to her lips, and she drinks quickly, the water disappearing within seconds.

"Better?" he asks.

The words sound ridiculous to Harry's ears, but Ros takes them in the spirit they were meant, and nods. No one says anything further and Harry watches as Andrew reaches for Ros' hand, squeezing her fingers. It's a familiar gesture, one he'd never thought Ros would allow, but she smiles as she closes her eyes.

Moments later she is asleep and Andrew shifts in the seat, not letting go.

Feeling like an intruder, Harry leaves once more.

–

Andrew is released before Ros, and Harry visits him in Whitehall. He looks as he did before; and Harry finds it hard to reconcile him with the man who spent hours at Ros' bedside.

"So," Andrew says, gesturing for Harry to sit down. "What is happening with Nightingale?"

Harry leans back in his chair, choosing his words carefully.

"Not a great deal," he admits. "We're rounding up as many of their assets as we can, but the big players are still at large."

Lawrence nods and rises to his feet, a clear dismissal. Harry walks to the door, but looks over his shoulder as the other man calls out.

"Sir Harry?" Lawrence says, blue-green eyes hard, "if you have any further doubts about me, I would appreciate it if you would talk to me directly."

He sits back down, his eyes already back on a file on his desk, and Harry nods, shocked at Lawrence's words.

"Of course, Home Secretary."

–

Andrew continues to visit Ros daily, the blonde awake more often, and Harry listens at the door to their conversation. It's full of generalities, but Ros lets out a full-bodied laugh, and Harry is floored. He has never heard his Section Chief laugh before, not like that.

"Harry," Ros says as he enters the room, sounding genuinely pleased to see him.

"Hello, Ros," he returns, walking to her bedside and kissing her on the cheek.

She looks shocked, and he is reminded of Juliet, something he chooses not to tell Ros. He doubts that Ros would ever want to be compared to Juliet, the woman who had effectively 'killed' her not so long ago.

"What happening with-?"

She winces as she moves in the bed, and Andrew reaches out and touches her forearm. Ros places her hand on his shoulder, using him to push herself upright.

"I have no news, Ros," Harry says as she opens her mouth.

She frowns, and her nose wrinkles in annoyance.

"I'm going stir-crazy in here," she says, looking down at the white sheet. "If I get told that I am a 'medical miracle' one more time, I'm liable to cause serious harm."

Harry laughs; her words prove that she is well on her way to recovery, and a large part of him can't wait until she is back on the Grid. Lucas is competent, but lacks a certain _something_ that Ros has in excess.

"Not much longer, Ros," he assures.

"Thank god, for that."

"You'll be causing me grief before you know it," Andrew says, a smile playing at his lips.

Ros laughs again, eyes twinkling in amusement.

–

"He offered me your job, you know," Ros says, closing a file that someone, probably Lucas, had brought her earlier that day with a _'snap.'_

Harry raised his eyebrows.

"I take it you didn't accept," he retorts.

Ros' mouth curves upward.

"I haven't given my answer yet."

–

The hospital is quieter than usual, the hour later, and Harry is surprised to see a faint light emanating from Ros' room. He approaches carefully and looks through the window. Ros is awake and speaking with Andrew Lawrence who shakes his head as he rises to his feet. She smiles as he leans down and Harry's eyes widen as Andrew brushes his lips against hers. Ros responds briefly before she places a hand against his chest and pushes him away, though her smile negates any harshness her actions might cause.

"Goodnight," he hears her say.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

With that, Andrew walks out of the room and comes face-to-face with Harry.

"You're here late," Lawrence says.

"Indeed."

Andrew nods towards him and side-steps around Harry, his footsteps growing steadily more silent. Harry steps inside the room and Ros looks upward and raises her eyebrows.

"Has something happened?" she asks, concerned.

Harry shakes his head. "Nothing like that."

"Good."

He sits down in the chair Andrew had just vacated and simply looked at Ros, choosing his words carefully.

"Did you give any more thought to the Home Secretary's job offer?"

Ros' expression wavers, shock showing briefly as she puts the pieces together as only Ros can.

"You have nothing to worry about, Harry," she says eventually.

Her answer is full of double meanings, of subjects more complicated than a simple job offer, but Harry takes it at face value.

"Good."

* * *

 **Author's notes:** Good grief, this one is a tad rambling.  
Please review,  
 _Odainath._


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